Kiss or Die
by General Button
Summary: At the pool scene in The Great Game, Moriarty forces them to kiss-or-die, while enjoying the show himself! Not sure if the rating or correct, so if not, please comment.


**Notey note note**: Cracky at the end because it's for this by **reapersun**. I wonder if she ever saw it...well, I'm moving this over from Livejournal, so yeah.

* * *

"I'll let you both go alive, on one condition." Moriarty's laughter bounces off the walls of the building.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, lips press together tightly. He waits until the laughter dies down. "What condition?" His head tilts slightly left, eyes expanding curiously.

John shifts his weight. This _condition_ that Moriarty is soon to expose will no doubt lead to humiliation and/or exasperation—at least on John's part.

"Can't you just, you know, let us go?" John asks, the slightest bit hopeful. Both of them give him a look.

"Don't be stupid, John." Sherlock doesn't even have the decency to look at him. He motions to Moriarty with his gun. "Tell us this 'condition.'

James Moriarty's grin turns sadistic, eyeing John for a few moments. Sherlock's grip on the gun tightens.

"Kiss." He is giddy with the thrill of watching astonishment force its way onto their faces. John sputters.

"Kiss—"

"Do it." Moriarty snaps.

"Sherlock, he can't be serious—"

Again, John is interrupted by Sherlock, who's color has all but drained. "Our lives are at stake, John," Sherlock says sotto voce. John's pale complexion surmounts Sherlock's at this point.

"It must be a trick," he hisses, twitching with the urge to plunge head-first into the pool as he watches Sherlock slowly step towards him. He barely flinches as hands land on his shoulder, eyes burning holes into his own.

"A weird trick but—" His lips hover over John's who's trembling now, with fear or anticipation, he's not sure.

"Sh—" Sherlock isn't sure when he comes to the realization that things have changed, but when his lips—trembling—touch upon John's, he can feel his chest swell, and it isn't his lungs expanding.

Everything fades from the background; Moriarty's laughter, the red dots trained upon their chests, the soft lapping of water in the pool. Everything. Disappears. For only a moment, the world is quiet, his brain is quiet, he can feel nothing but the soft touch of his lips on John's.

John sighs into the kiss unconsciously, his lips pressing harder into Sherlock's. It takes Sherlock barely a millisecond for his brain to resume, his body to come alive. A thousand things come to attention at once. John likes it. His fists are clenched and his body is tight. Not from the kiss itself, but from holding himself back. Sherlock, still blissfully ignorant of everything except John, wraps his arms around John's waist. His lips part slightly, ample pressure is applied, and John opens right up.

A groan comes from deep within Sherlock at the compliant move. His grip tightens and his tongue invades. He plunders and pillages John's mouth, moans and sighs coming from the subdued man, heavy gasps and throaty groans Sherlock doesn't realize come from himself.

Everything is inconsequential, like the fact that they are being threatened by gunmen, or that this is not the time to be indulging in newly discovered affections. Yet, Sherlock can't help himself. He pushes John against the wall, drags his lips over Johns, lets his breath coat his lips, tastes _John_.

His body is shaking on the inside. Arousal swells, for the first time in a very long while.

"John," he breathes, voice sonorous. John shudders at the sound of his name coming from those perfect lips. Sherlock captures John's wrists to position them above his head. "John, John." John moans, bordering upon shoving Sherlock away—because he _knows_ this is wrong, knows, it but feels oh, so _right—_or pulling him closer. He decides not to protest when Sherlock presses his body against him, nor when he finds himself suddenly incapable of movement. Sherlock pushes him, _pleading_ with his body, saying _pleasepleaseletme_ until they fall clumsily into a heap, kiss unbroken, both parallel to the ground. Sherlock's rapidly rising hard-on grinds against John's, so that they both groan, their undulation gaining rhythm. John's legs wrap around Sherlock's waist and he gasps into his ears.

"Oh, _Sherlock_." And then Sherlock is falling, breaking, shattering, his will crumbling underneath this man who has somehow—in a matter of hours, days, weeks, months, who-knows-how-long—managed to change him. He remembers when he told John he didn't care about people, that he didn't need to. _Now_, he thinks, _that isn't quite true_.

While the two men dry-hump and snog each other, Moriarty makes a motion with his hand—the one that's down his pants, and the men with the guns aren't sure what to do. They look at their boss, then at the sickening display by the pool, undecided. "Our boss is…"

"Yeah."


End file.
